


Catch You Catch Me

by Mizzy



Category: Leverage
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Heist, Pining, Romance, Sexual Tension, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-03 23:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2892557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two paintings worth millions of dollars. An insurance agent and a dashing grifter. Wherein Nathan Ford knows everything, and Sophie definitely has an opinion on that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch You Catch Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanghali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanghali/gifts).



> This is a combination of prompts, so I hope you like it, giftee. :)
> 
> Thank you to my awesome betas and to the awesome mods. :)

The thing about Nathan Ford, in Sophie's opinion, is that he thinks he knows everything and it's _so darn irritating._

Right now he's watching her from behind a pillar, a drink in his hand, thinking he knows what she's going to do, so he just has to wait for it to happen. He probably thinks he can stop her. He's wrong. Sophie smiles to herself. Ford thinks he's so sneaky, but he's just as predictable as any of the dozen or so men at any given time chasing her.

He's a little more Sophie's type than many of the others, which does give him an edge. Any other grifter would keep the attraction secret, but Sophie finds it's much more fun to layer truths in among the lies. Ford's getting better at sniping out the truths. She wonders what his expression will be when he realizes the careful, cultivated flirting isn't all smoke and mirrors.

She's hoping for a pleased smile, actually.

Ford sips from his drink through a straw; Sophie clocks the too-dark shade. Tea. He's drinking _tea._ That's the American insurance companies for you, don't want their agents getting drunk on the job. Well, it makes Sophie's job a little easier. It's so much easier telling the insurance agents apart from the federal ones, and between IYS and Interpol? Sophie knows which "I" group she'd prefer to deal with, if stuck between one or the other.

With Ford on her radar, Sophie feels comfortable. The insurance companies don't care about the person behind the crime. If something goes pear-shaped, Sophie can sacrifice her goal and escape easily. While sometimes it's the _thrill_ of a potential jail sentence that draws her to a long con, Ford makes the game just interesting enough for Sophie to pick IYS-covered targets and get a relatively safe thrill.

If you ignore Ford's willingness to hit a girl. Or shoot her, as the case may be.

Sometimes on a cold night, Sophie's old gunshot scar aches. Of course, on cold nights Sophie's usually in bed, and there are definitely worse things to think of than Nathan Ford when a girl's alone and in need of a pick-me-up. Most women probably fall hook and sinker for those baby blue eyes, but Sophie's tied when it comes to ranking Ford's sexiest attributes: she can't decide whether it's his hands or his mind that turns her on the most.

"Ford's married, you know," a deep voice says on her left, startling Sophie. She tosses her hair over her shoulder without looking left, because there's only one idiot in the northern hemisphere with _that_ voice and _that_ ability to wind her up so quickly. She should have remembered IYS like to pair their agents up whenever possible. Especially when the score is so huge.

Two paintings, two measly little paintings, and both for around thirty million apiece. Of course they're by Rothko, which means Sophie will have to use the fence she likes the least; he makes a killing with stolen abstract expressionist works, but he skims a massive chunk of the profits, _and_ tends to smell a lot like sour milk while doing so.

Sophie shudders. Dealing with that idiot is a small irritation compared to the fun she'll have with the payout.

Dealing with James Sterling, on the other hand, might be a step too far. Sophie really doesn't _need_ an extra fifty million dollars cluttering up her Cayman Islands bank account. Then again, she hadn't needed those Louboutins last month, either.

Sophie side-eyes Sterling contemplatively.

Oh, well, a girl needs to fund a lifelong shoe addiction somehow. And if crime was completely outlawed, where would any of the fun in life be then, eh?

"I'm aware he's married," Sophie says. "I'm also aware that you're not. Curious that, you not being admired by the opposite sex. I wonder who saw that coming?"

Sophie smiles at Sterling, even as Sterling's jaw tenses. She can still see Ford in the extremes of her vision; she fancies the tightening of his scowl is because of her friendliness with Sterling, and she leans her body towards Sterling automatically. Ford's fingers clench tighter on his glass.

 _Yes,_ Sophie's brain thrills. She shakes herself internally. _You're here to make us rich, not get hot, wet and bothered over Nathan Ford,_ Sophie lectures herself, dialling back her charm towards Sterling a little. It dims Ford's displeased reaction and Sterling doesn't buy her acts anyway. Although he did once buy a ticket to her one woman show of _The Crucible_ in Berlin on Sophie's thirty-second birthday. Sometimes when Sterling is super annoying, Sophie likes to recall his expression. Appalled doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Rothko, huh?" Sterling scowls at the paintings in question. "You don't seem the type."

"Me? Not the type to admire a painting worth more than my last two years' worth of scores?" Sophie asks. Actually, it's closer to about four years' worth of long cons, but she'll enjoy imagining the _two years_ driving Sterling mad. Make him wonder about the twenty-odd million dollars worth of goods Sophie must have stolen from under his nose without him noticing.

Across the room, Ford's careful stare has colored to something more intense. Ford can lip read, then. Sophie's mouth curls at the edges; she's instantly impressed by that.

"We've figured out your angle, you know," Sterling says, gaze glinting around the room, stopping at certain pivotal points — the curator of the gallery, the owner of the paintings, the security cameras on the left wall and above the exit.

"By _we,_ you mean Ford," Sophie says.

Sterling makes an aborted half-snort of disbelief. "No, I—" He frowns. "Only because I've been very busy on a case worth three times the cover on this case. Ford's been relegated to the grunt work."

"Right," Sophie says and walks away from him, angling towards the painting owner. Sterling tries to follow her, but it's the work of a moment to pick up a glass of red wine from a waiter, surreptitiously tip it over a guest's dress, and loudly declaim Sterling as the culprit, pretending to heroically snatch the still half-full glass from his hands. "You brute!" Sophie yells, sweeping away from him as a couple of the security guards get involved in throwing Sterling out, despite his loud protests of denial.

"Nice work," Ford says, close behind her, close enough for the breath from his words to tickle her neck. "I might try that one on him myself the next time we're paired together."

Sophie half-smiles and continues her path. There's a trick to this con and Sophie's not going to be derailed. After a quick greeting to the owner of the gallery, she stops in front of the paintings, neatly sitting on the long bench that is situated in front of them. Sophie tilts her head slightly as if she's deeply examining them. Ford, of course, draws up alongside her and sits neatly next to her. She tries not to stare at his profile, even though Sophie privately thinks there's more art to the curls of Nate's hair lying against the nape of his neck than Rothko's blocks of color.

"I know you think these aren't the real paintings," Ford says.

"I don't know what you mean," Sophie says.

"You already stole the paintings. Those are forgeries." Ford inclines his heads at the Rothko pieces. "And you've been gathering blackmail material against the curator who verifies the art to get her to confirm that's the case, before you switched them last week."

"Okay," Sophie says, slowly. "So if I already did this… then why would I be here?"

"Jim thinks it's so you can gloat at all these people cooing over the forgeries," Ford says, shrugging. "But we both know differently, don't we?"

Sophie side-eyes him coolly. Ford ignores her, his hands behind his back as he calmly flickers his gaze over the paintings. "I can't presume that you know _anything,_ Mr. Ford."

"I know the security has been escalated for the duration of the Rothko exhibit," Ford says. "I know that you've never been able to lift anything from a site with a rotating guard and with pressure pad sensors. I know that you plan to get the paintings out tonight."

Sophie turns fully to him this time and smiles. "That's a lot of hypothetical knowledge, Mr. Ford. And how, pray, am I planning to get the paintings out?" She spreads an arm wide at the milling crowd. "Just tuck them under my arm and walk out of here, huh?"

"Basically, it's because I know something you don't," Ford says and reaches behind himself with both hands. "I know the paintings on the wall _aren't_ forgeries."

Sophie realizes what he's doing a touch too late to react gracefully and the wooden bench collapses beneath them. Ford manages to catch himself, but Sophie tumbles to the ground with an inelegant shriek.

"Better get that out of here," Ford tells a couple of the guards who run up, looking almost as embarrassed as Sophie feels. She gets helped to her feet quickly, but there's no undoing the fact nearly everyone saw her ungraceful tumble. And her white control panties too, probably. Sophie mourns the days she used to be able to do her cons in pretty underwear, but with age comes responsibility to contain one's sagging parts.

"I'm so sorry, Duchess," the paintings' owner is gushing at Sophie and she waves him off quickly, because Ford has just done all the hard work for her.

"No problem," Sophie says, flashing him a grateful smile. "But you'll understand if I, uh, excuse myself for a moment."

The owner nods and she tries to hurry off, but Ford has her by the arm, pulling her back in towards him; his smile is almost lazy when she's nestled in the crook of his arm, like it's just gravity pulling her towards him, inexorable and inescapable.

"But Lady Rosalie, don't be so shy," Ford purrs, using Sophie's cover name.  He glances over to the confused-looking owner. "Mr. Ascheron. Ms. Rosalie here occasionally works freelance for my company, and she's uncovered two things here. First, she's diligently exposed the fact that your curator is corrupt—"

There's a slight commotion near the door as the said curator tries to flee and is caught by a returning, triumphant Sterling and a pair of security guards.

"—but she's also exposed the manner of how the thief planned to extract the paintings," Ford says, and gestures at the two guards still midway through carrying the broken bench out of the gallery. He passes Sophie over to Sterling in order to go over to the bench and flip down a flimsy piece of wood covering the bottom to reveal the inside of the bench is hollow.

And contains an exact replica of the two Rothko paintings.

"Thankfully," Ford says, "we already switched the paintings before the exhibition began." He doesn't grin when he looks over at Sophie, but there's definitely a smirk dancing in his eyes. "The real ones are on the wall and the forgeries are contained in the bench." Ford smiles pleasantly at the owner of the painting. "I'd advise you close the exhibition early and get the paintings locked away, sir. If you would like IYS to keep covering your collection."

"Of course," Mr. Ascheron stutters, looking bewildered.

Still smiling, Ford tucks the paintings under his arm and takes Sophie's free arm, and he and Sterling march Sophie out of the gallery and across the road to the nearest hotel.

"You can let me go now," Sophie says, smiling uselessly at both men. "The paintings weren't stolen, you both did your job, you can let little old me go, yeah? Calling the police is _much_ more trouble than I'm worth."

"I'm sure you'd like that," Sterling says, rolling his eyes and pushing her straight into the nearest elevator. Sophie fumes as they march her into one of the double rooms.

It's only when Sophie's in the hotel room that she starts laughing. It bubbles up from her stomach until she can't help it and she leans against Nate, laughing and laughing and laughing.

"That was _priceless,_ " Sophie breathes, as Sterling lets her go. Nate's laughing too now, burying his face in her shoulder.

"You're both completely weird," Sterling says. He leans against the door, eyeballing them both. "I know you two are boring marrieds now, but can you _please_ stop cashing in your favors to help me enable this weird, kinky, romanticizing-the-past role-playing you two are so into?" Sterling squints at them in undisguised disgust. "You're putting me off my dinner, the both of you."

"Thanks, James," Nate says, grin wide and cheeky.

"And don't _James_ me," Sterling says, backing up. "You owe me for that woman's dress you ruined too, Devereaux. Apparently I have to pay for that out of _my_ pocket. Don't think I'm not billing you."

"How about a trade?" Nate asks, leaning away from Sophie to pick up the paintings he'd rescued from the bottom of the bench, passing them over to Sterling.

Sterling looks about three thousand times _done_ with the situation, but he takes them and then pauses.  "Please do not tell me that this is—"

"—approximately thirty million dollars worth of paintings, because when we went into the gallery before the exhibition I _didn't_ swap the paintings?" Nate finishes, leaning back into Sophie's side, smiling lazily. "Well, I'm still a thief, and it was a nicely planned con. It would have been a shame to waste such a good plan." He smiles proudly at Sophie while Sterling looks at the paintings and makes that frustrated sound in the back of his throat that Sophie never tires of hearing. "I know you still freelance for IYS as a consultant. Split the commission fifty-fifty and I promise we'll leave you out of the fun stuff in the future?"

"I can't believe you stole them for me," Sophie murmurs adoringly. "And _I_ thought replicating the con where we first kissed was the romantic part. I don't know how you're going to top this for our _next_ anniversary."

"I've got some ideas," Nate says, sliding his hands around her hips.

"And… that's my cue to leave," Sterling says, putting the paintings under his arm and heading for the door. "The money will be in your account in two weeks."

"Do you think he really will send the money?" Sophie asks.

"Well, I still have the photos from Minsk," Nate says, eliciting another of Sterling's frustrated noises as their old friend slams out of their hotel room. "He knows how fast Hardison can disperse them on the internet if he disappoints me."

"You should show them to me sometime," Sophie says.

Nate laughs, nudging her backwards towards the bed with his knees, completely unsubtle. Ten years ago, when they'd met like this here before, Nate had kept her in the room until all the paintings were locked away; he didn't call the police, but he made damn sure she couldn't even steal any of her back-up options. He'd been unresponsive to her bribes _or_ her flirting _or_ the moment she got desperate and tried to kiss him. He'd kissed back for a second, maybe, but then been basically _immovable_ for the rest of the time. It had been one of the most frustrating nights of her life.

"The original night never ended quite like this," Sophie gasps, falling onto the bed and dramatically tossing her hair. She smiles at him, cat-like, seductive.

There's a dull flush on Nate's cheeks and it warms Sophie to know that even after all this time, she can still make him blush. "No, it didn't," Nate says, and he moves in closer to stand between her outspread feet. He touches her knee casually, like it's supposed to be an accident, but the curve of a repressed smirk on the corner of his mouth states how much he knows a touch like that affects her. "But we can rewrite history a little." He leans in even closer, his mouth brushing hers when he asks, "How did _you_ want that night to end?"

Sophie hits him with her most seductive move, licking her lips without losing eye contact. Nate's breathing audibly hitches, which is always a compliment. "With me a fair few million pounds richer, of course."

Nate rolls his eyes but kisses her anyway. She doesn't mention that being with him makes her _feel_ like a millionaire, but it's Nathan Ford: he knows everything already. And sometimes, Sophie thinks as her toes curl into the coverlet and she's swept away by his practiced hands, that's a very good thing indeed.


End file.
